Phantom Train
by Xyris
Summary: FF6. Locke's life gets thrown a proverbial curve. Dionysian in nature, a journey from life into death, from love into hate, teaches him the inevitable: there is no stopping the Phantom Train...


"The Phantom Train"  
  
Xyris  
  
xyris@excite.com  
  
  
  
-And I looked and beheld a pale horse, and the rider upon it, his name was Death-  
  
  
  
[Revelation 6:8]  
  
  
  
"Tickets, please," the lanky-framed conductor asked of the coming passengers. "Be sure to have  
  
your tickets ready for entry."  
  
It was a sullen instruction being given to an equally melancholy group of soon-to-be  
  
passengers. The near-infinite trail of wayward souls lined the bleak forests of Afterlife, confused  
  
and disoriented by a trip they never even knew they made. All they knew was that there was  
  
nowhere else for them to go. It was either leaving on the Phantom Train and become united with  
  
their lost loves or staying behind and become the silent witnesses to those still morning their  
  
deaths.  
  
Locke Cole chose the former.  
  
He was, at long last, going to the place where he belonged. Rachel would surely be there,  
  
waiting in eager anticipation for his arrival. Banon, his mentor and leader of the Returners, would  
  
be there by her side, as would his mother and father. Despite the sullen march, he was happy.  
  
Heaven was calling him and it was time to go home.  
  
"Name, please," the conductor asked of the man in front of the line. His voice was flat and  
  
bereft of emotion.  
  
"Vargas of Mount Kolts," the dark and athletic young man replied.  
  
The conductor raised a skeletal hand and checked his name on a clipboard with a quill. "Your  
  
ticket, please."  
  
Duncan's former pupil produced a ticket from his dungarees, one that looked like a rectangular  
  
strip of diamond. The conductor took it and ripped it in half as if it were paper. "Please retain  
  
your stubs. You will need them as proof of entry past Purgatory."  
  
Assuming that the young apprentice understood, the skeleton of a conductor ushered Vargas  
  
into the preternatural darkness of the Phantom Train's car. The train roared down the line and  
  
another pulled up just as quickly. Consulting with a pocket watch that didn't even work, he  
  
gestured for the next soul to come forward. This one was of an equally brawny physique, yet had  
  
a much darker complexion. His expression gave away the chip on his shoulder.  
  
"Name, sir." The conductor sounded no less (or no more) lenient than with the last passenger.  
  
"Dadaluma of Zozo!" he snapped, his face still contorted with anger. "I still say that I didn't do  
  
anything wrong! I was only trying to keep foreigners out of Zozo! My only crime was  
  
patriotism!"  
  
The ticket taker kept his pallid expression, mainly because he had no flesh on his face to  
  
comport a different one. "You'll receive no judgement from me, Dadaluma of Zozo. I am only a  
  
psychopomp - that is - a guide for souls to the Other Side. Please don't think it unfair of me."  
  
Grumbling something incoherent, Dadaluma boarded the train and became mute the second he  
  
stepped into the passenger car. This was disconcerting for the treasure hunter to say the least.  
  
Either one's afterlife left him with nothing more to worry about or his silent disbelief meant that  
  
his worries were only just beginning.  
  
Locke prayed it wasn't the latter, at least not in his case.  
  
Sighing nervously, he stepped up to the toll booth, awaiting acknowledgment from the  
  
conductor.   
  
"Your name, please," he finally said.  
  
"Locke Cole of Kohilegen," he said, albeit hesitantly.  
  
"A Cole from Kohilegen," the psychopomp remarked. "How original."  
  
Why was he so afraid? Did it have to do with the fact that a self-proclaimed relic hunter did a  
  
lot of stealing for sustenance? Whoever it was that would judge him on the Other Side would  
  
almost certainly take that into account. Stealing was, after all, a sin.  
  
"You people seem to be awfully busy," Locke commented, retying his bandana nervously. "I  
  
wasn't aware that Kefka took so many lives."  
  
"Time is your real predator, not Kefka." The conductor marked Locke Cole's name on the list.  
  
"All of you arrive here, in Limbo, at the same time. The order which you board the Phantom  
  
Train dictates when you pass away."  
  
Locke's brow furrowed, his mind digesting the news slowly. "Is that so?" he said  
  
subconsciously.  
  
Even as the conductor asked him for his ticket, Locked turned and scanned the others for one  
  
he might recognize. Those who were still trekking through the now-distant and foggy forests  
  
were a faceless crowd at best. Those closest to him were unrecognizable also, nothing but  
  
dispatched privates and PFC's from the late Empire. Still, it didn't take long for the treasure  
  
hunter to take notice of the next Returner slated to pass away.  
  
The Magitek general - Celes Chere!  
  
"Celes?!" But his cry never traveled well, if it traveled at all. "Celes, it's me, Locke! Can't you  
  
hear me?!"  
  
But despite his most labored efforts, the lovely young woman that was once his Maria couldn't  
  
hear him at all. If anything, she was becoming impatient with the holdup in the line.  
  
"Don't torture yourself, Locke of Kohilegen." He turned back to the conductor, who still had a  
  
bony hand outstretched, waiting for his ticket. "One's voice cannot travel when he or she is  
  
already dead."  
  
"But. . .why does she have to be the next freedom fighter to die? It's not fair."  
  
"She thinks the same of your death, but would you rather it be Edgar or Strago to go next? It's  
  
just Fate's way with people, Locke. Perhaps you could ask Fate himself your questions when you  
  
get to the Other Side." The conductor's fingers rolled in and out in a 'come here' motion. "But I  
  
need your ticket first!"  
  
But in all honesty, he simply could not find his ticket. "I don't have it! Seriously!"  
  
The line of souls was getting restless. A voice, faint and insubstantial, complained over the  
  
delay. It was Celes.  
  
Shut up, Celes, Locke thought. For the love of Palidor, shut up!  
  
"Well then," the psychopomp sighed more than said. He crossed Locke's name off the list  
  
altogether. "I guess that means you still have unfinished business with life."  
  
Locke already knew. Celes was in trouble!  
  
"So, I'm going back then," Locke replied.  
  
"Naturally," the psychopomp grumbled, sounding unhappy.  
  
The conductor handed Locke a diamond-emulating charm. Within its crystalline shell were s  
  
small moving parts and cogs. One side displayed a clock face with imps and mogs as the hour-  
  
and minute-hands. A pocketwatch.  
  
"This watch is your life, hence it has stopped," the conductor explained. "Wind it if you deem it  
  
necessary to return to your loved ones and right what wrongs you believe are still with them. But  
  
be warned. The instant that watch is destroyed, you will return and take your place aboard the  
  
Phantom Train. Is that understood?"  
  
Nodding, Locke wound the watch and braced himself for return.   
  
Then, like a bad dream, Locke Cole disappeared. . .  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The next thing the treasure hunter knew was sleep, though it was far from any sleep he had ever  
  
known before. Images of demonic beings, Kefka included, danced ritualistically in his head.  
  
Locke knew what it all entailed. It was the final battle. The war to end all wars. The skirmish that  
  
had claimed his life. . .  
  
Ever so gradually, the exhaustion lifted to the enlivening aroma of a Phoenix Down. He opened  
  
his eyes and espied the ever-present overtones of Mobliz's scorched being. Still unable to move,  
  
he heard someone crying in the background.  
  
"Why did he have to die?" a grief-stricken woman lamented.  
  
"It was his time, love." Strago Magus, the elderly blue mage from Thamasa, was holding the  
  
general in a heartfelt embrace. "You must be strong, Celes. He wouldn't want to see you cry."  
  
Locke wanted to get up and hold her himself but pain shot through his body like lightning. He  
  
never even had the ability to groan from the discomfort.  
  
"Come," Strago said, "I think it's time we told the others."  
  
"Celes. . ." Locke tried to say, but pain forbid it.  
  
His two Returner companions exited to deliver their bad news to the rest of the group, who  
  
waited for new developments in the adjacent room. Locke anticipated a majority of their  
  
responses: Relm would deny it. Terra would weep. Setzer would curse their 'bad luck'. The  
  
Figaro brothers would reminisce with the others. Cyan would praise the Returner's bravery and  
  
the Veldt child Gau would gathere himself close to the esper girl and share in her grief. The  
  
others were either too underdeveloped to understand, like Umaro, or simply had no emotions to  
  
show, like Shadow. All, however, felt for Celes and would openly do whatever it took to help her  
  
cope with the loss.  
  
Again, this was why Locke originally chose to stay behind in the afterlife, so that he would not  
  
see them brooding over his death. No other pain in the world was quite like it. And yet, he had to  
  
come back. He had to suffer in order to protect the one he loved. He would obviously not be  
  
exempt from the pain tonight. Sleep was his only salvation. But as dreams built in his head, a  
  
small, crystalline watch dropped from his pocket, incessantly ticking and tocking away the  
  
seconds of a life that rightfully ended back in Kefka's tower.  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Hey, wake up!  
  
Damn, he's out cold.  
  
Yo, bro! Ain't that one of the fools that trounced us back in that Doman's dream?  
  
A glittering veil of blue-black night was all that surrounded Locke. Unlike reality, he could  
  
stand and talk in this place without having to worry about the agony of being wounded. The  
  
environs were familiar, too familiar for comfort in fact.  
  
"I'm Curly."  
  
"I'm Larry."  
  
"And I'm Moe."  
  
Locke sighed. "And I'm tired, so just get right to the point, alright guys? Whose life are you  
  
trying to destroy this time?"  
  
The Dream Stooges exchanged sidelong glances. "Could somebody remind me why we agreed  
  
to take on this stupid assignment again?"  
  
Locke frowned. "Assignment?"  
  
"We've been hired to inform you of how many lives are left to go before Celes is next to die."  
  
The treasure hunter instinctively reached for a sword. Even in this place, Locke found the  
  
Ragnarok resting in his scabbard and pulled it out without a second thought. "How do you know  
  
about that?"  
  
Curly stepped forward with a very logical-sounding answer "All souls who await the afterlife  
  
are designated with a psychopomp. Yours was Nethyren, who also just happens to be our current  
  
employer. We needed someone else after you and your friends..."  
  
"Killed Wrexsoul, right?"  
  
The contempt he found in the eyes of the Stooges could cut granite. "We don't want to be here  
  
anymore than you want us here," Larry added, "So let's just cut right to the chase so we can get  
  
back to haunting other people's dreams."  
  
Moe wrapped an arm around the neck of the relic hunter and walked with him across Locke's  
  
chasm of dreams. "Last you were in Limbo, there were exactly seventeen souls between you and  
  
Celes. Now, there are only five."  
  
Locke's jaw dropped. "Five?! You mean to tell me that 'that' many people died on the day we  
  
saved the world?"  
  
"Actually, it's more around the neighborhood of a few days. Time goes faster when your in  
  
Limbo. Anyway, most of the people between you and her were of the Imperial persuasion, most  
  
of which committed suicide after Kefka was defeated. They were a very disillusioned bunch, ya  
  
know?"  
  
Locke shook his head. "Ya don't say."  
  
"We've come to you tonight to inform you that you're to stay with Celes through night and day.  
  
We haven't discerned how the others were killed, although it may have been due to random  
  
encounters, assassins, or some other more personal means. She is, after all, a traitor to what the  
  
Empire used to be."  
  
"She's marked for death," Locke deplored, "She won't be safe no matter where she is."  
  
"We've had that feeling, too. If the deaths of others is just a predetermined pattern from a  
  
higher force at work, then it's not a matter of stopping an individual, only to interfere at the  
  
moment when Death is supposed to claim her. But if death isn't predetermined, than you need  
  
only stop the one who wishes to claim vengence with Celes' blood."  
  
"A matter of fate or fortune. Jeez, I'm starting to sound a lot like Setzer."  
  
Curly's brow furrowed on the topic. "Speaking of Setzer, tell him to stop brooding over that  
  
Daryl missus. Jeez, I've never invaded a mind with such sullen thoughts."  
  
"Not something you'd expect from a gambler, is it?" Moe added.  
  
Locke desperately needed peace from such trivial matters. "What do I have to do if I need to  
  
speak to you guys again?"  
  
But they had already disappeared. . .  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"He's awake! He's awake!"  
  
Locke bolted upright on the mattress, the peal of a young but cacophonous voice still ringing  
  
inside his head. The trample of footfalls came like a heard of chocobos. The treasure hunter  
  
needed more than a few minutes to get a hold on the moment, and by then, he practically had to  
  
defend himself from the siege of hugs and kisses the female Returners forced onto him. After a  
  
while, when everyone finally came to accept the reality of his Phoenix-like rebirth, Locke asked  
  
to be alone with Celes.  
  
"There's something I have to tell you."  
  
Consternation trembled in his voice, but Celes had the feeling she knew what he was talking  
  
about. "Don't," she said, and lulled him by placing a finger against his lips. "I already know what  
  
you're going to say."  
  
Locke shook his head. His bandana quietly slipped from its hold around his head. "No, you  
  
don't understand. You're in danger."  
  
Celes went mute. "What are you talking about?"  
  
So, he went ahead and spoke at great lengths of what he had experienced during his 'near-death  
  
experience' (Celes wasn't comfortable with the term 'dead'). When it still appeared as if she didn't  
  
believe him, he showed him the watch his psychopomp, Nethyren, had given him. "That's cute,"  
  
she said, taking it into her hands for closer observation. "And what cave did you dig this one out  
  
of?"  
  
"Celes. . ." He took her hand into his. Her eyes were suddenly full of emotion. "That watch is  
  
my life. Nethyren has given me a second chance and I'm using it to show you how much you  
  
mean to me."  
  
"Locke. . ." But she couldn't find anything else to say. Tears forced her eyes shut as the treasure  
  
hunter leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Why couldn't you do that sooner?"  
  
He left the question unanswered. "I don't have much time. My psychopomp always has his eye  
  
on me."  
  
Celes leaned her head on his shoulder. "What is it that you have to do?"  
  
Locke brushed back the loose wisps of blond hair from her face. "I have to protect you."  
  
"From what?"  
  
"From your time."  
  
As that was going on, the Returners were apparently celebrating Locke's rebirth with the youths  
  
of Mobliz. Katarin and Duane were all the more eager to share in everyone's happiness, inviting  
  
the saviors of their world to stay for as long as they wanted. 'I knew that old wildcat wasn't out of  
  
it yet' Edgar would allude to. 'The old S.O.B. is made of steel, plain and simple' Setzer would  
  
add. To that, Katarin would fire back, saying 'Watch your language! There are kids around!'  
  
But as Locke and Celes wandered into the room where the festivities were centered, their  
  
minds appeared to be elsewhere. Everyone's eyes fell on them both, demanding to know what the  
  
problem was.  
  
"What is it?" Terra finally asked, lulling the Mobliz child in her arms.  
  
Locke sighed. "My time here is limited." He gripped the watch in his pocket that was his life. "I  
  
can't begin to explain the whole story to you. I just want you to know that you're all good people,  
  
and I'd entrust my life with each one of you, however long that may be."  
  
They all seemed to understand. How could they not relate to him after everything they had been  
  
through? The silence broke when the ninja rose from where he was sitting on a crate. "Well," he  
  
said, "The Reaper is just as much my friend as he is yours. So, whatever it is you need, just say  
  
the word."  
  
To that, Locke smiled. "Thanks, Shadow. You guys are the best friends a treasure hunter could  
  
hope for."  
  
"I'm just glad that you came out of that coma you were in," Sabin remarked.  
  
"Seriously!" Setzer replied, shuffling his cards in a vain attempt to mask his concern for his  
  
friend. "I mean, how long has it been since we defeated Kefka? Aday? Two?"  
  
Terra looked up from where she was tending to the Mobliz newborn. "It's more like three."  
  
Three.  
  
The word echoed with a deep and unrelenting toll in his head. Suddenly, it was as if reality  
  
recoiled in terror. The room went spinning, dizzy with images of the Dream Stooges surrounding  
  
him, each one holding up three fingers. The panorama of his delusionary state was dotted with  
  
his grim psychopomp, Nethyren, holding that same crystalline watch out in front of him. It was a  
  
wake-up call.   
  
Three people left . . . before Celes was to board the Phantom Train.  
  
Locke hit the ground, writhing and screaming and clawing at his neck. The children of Mobliz  
  
clutched their ears and wept over the deplorable sight of the treasure hunter convulsing and  
  
gagging on the floor at the hands of some unseen attacker. Even the ninja's dog, Interceptor,  
  
believed in the presence of some preternatural nemesis and began to bark with fright.   
  
Panic-stricken, Celes and the others gathered close to him, begging for him to tell them what  
  
was wrong.  
  
"The noose!" he cried. "Get it off me! I can't breathe!"  
  
His psychotic episode was accompanied with the hazy recollection of being in a room at some  
  
vaguely familiar inn. As well, he remembered, looking back from where he awaited departure  
  
aboard the Phantom Train, the visage of the third in line before Celes. A young, auburn-haired  
  
man with eyes that hinted at his suicidal tendencies.  
  
"Locke?!"  
  
Her scream gave Locke a bad jolt, casting away his hallucination as light would dismiss a dark  
  
crevice. His breathing was labored; he could barely return the frightened embrace Celes gave  
  
him.  
  
"Locke, are you okay?" The general barely had the ability to ask. Her eyes and voice were both  
  
turgid with fear.  
  
"That inn," he said, trembling. "So familiar! It was. . .yes! Tzen! We have to go Tzen, now!"  
  
Barely able to balance himself on his feet, Locke staggered over to the airship pilot and gave  
  
him a wild-eyed stare. "Setzer? Can you. . ."  
  
"I'm way ahead of you, Locke. Just follow me."  
  
Celes insisted on going with him.  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
You know you want to do it. . .  
  
He did. There was no reason to go on any further. Darien's life was in shambles. The empire  
  
had taken his family, taken his beloved, everything but his own life, the one thing that could have  
  
ended all of this needless suffering. So now, this lone, misguided Marandian, amongst a band of  
  
derelicts in the dark and gloomy remains of Tzen, would fulfill his death wish. The inn door was  
  
locked and the noose was ready. He left a letter on the desk for Alexa, the pretty young girl he  
  
had befriended while making his exploits in the days of Balance. Darien prayed that she would  
  
understand.  
  
Only after pulling tight the drapes of his window did he step up on the rickety chair and secure  
  
the rope around him. The crack of the noose drowned out the breaking of his own neck. His body  
  
was discovered the following day, swinging like a morbid pendulum in the dim morning light of  
  
Tzen. He had promised the others that he wouldn't do it.  
  
Welcome aboard, Darien of Maranda. . .  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"Locke, wait!" Celes cried.  
  
But there was simply no getting through to him. Even as the airship was in the process of  
  
touching down in the glen just outside Tzen, the treasure hunter had already leapt from Setzer's  
  
vessel, stealing away into the cold, dark night. With heart racing and mind reeling, he sprinted  
  
across the still-withered landscape that encompassed the township, quick to be eclipsed by the  
  
amber glow of Tzen's kerosene lamps. Exhaustion threatened collapse as he ambled into the  
  
byways of town. He had, after all, never stopped since battling through Kefka's tower. Instead, he  
  
continued on through Tzen, quick to pick up on the sullen discourse from a web of derelicts that  
  
had gathered just outside the inn.  
  
"It's terrible."  
  
"What a waste!"  
  
"He had so much to live for."  
  
Locke found this unsettling but pushed his way through the melancholy crowd even as Setzer,  
  
Celes, and the others wandered into the circle of disconcerted vagrants, searching for their  
  
panick-stricken relic hunter. At last, they found him. He was sitting down on a crate, consoling a  
  
lovely young woman who was weeping over the contents of the letter in her hands.  
  
"Locke?" Celes asked timidly.  
  
The only voice that responded was the mournful cry of young Alexa. "I thought he was happy  
  
with me. I thought I convinced him that he had come a long way from Maranda. Why did he have  
  
to leave me?"  
  
Sorrow welled up inside Locke. The description of Darien's untimely end was everything that  
  
he had experienced in his horrific premonition back in Mobliz: the noose around his neck; the  
  
room and villa of the victim; everything, right down to the last detail. Would the premonitions  
  
persist? He prayed they would. Otherwise, there was no hope in saving Celes from premature  
  
death.  
  
"Stay strong," Locke said in embracing the young girl, "Everything is going to be alright."  
  
Forcing a smile, Alexa returned the embrace to her benevolent stranger, feeling better than she  
  
had been before. Celes and the others remained stoic, completely taken off guard as to how  
  
Locke could have possibly known something like this would happen so far away. There was no  
  
doubt in any of their minds anymore.   
  
Locke had died and came back to tell about it.  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The bonfire was terrific. The insurmountable splendor of orange and yellow flames warmed  
  
Locke from the encroaching chill of the cold night air. There he remained for a long time, getting  
  
lost in the whimsical beauty of the fire, waiting for the next vision of death to come to him. In the  
  
meanwhile, a dark silhouette approached his position, one that had come from the direction of  
  
the distant Falcon. By the time the treasure hunter picked up on the plodding of the person's  
  
footfalls, his name coalesced with the crackle of the burning embers. It was Terra.  
  
"What is it?" he said.  
  
"We have to talk." She sat down beside him, her emerald tresses and crimson jumper gleaming  
  
in the vicinity of Locke's fire. "Celes is worried about you. So am I."  
  
He produced that same crystalline pocket watch from his jacket. "Don't worry about me, Terra.  
  
Worry about Celes."  
  
For the first time since the two friends had met, Terra never felt safe in the treasure hunter's  
  
presence. "Locke, I know you love Celes and that you feel obligated to protect her, but what does  
  
the death of that young Marandian have to do with anything? I just don't see the connection."  
  
In a gesture that took Terra completely by surprise, Locke took the hand of the esper girl into  
  
his own. "Do you remember the tales Cyan used to tell us about the Phantom Train?"  
  
"You mean the train that takes the departed to the other side?"  
  
Locke smiled. "That's the one. I was there for the brief spell I was. . ." He was about to say  
  
'dead', but he knew Terra wouldn't be comfortable with that term. "When I had my near death  
  
experience. And when I found out that Celes was the next one slated to die, well, I did what any  
  
man in love would do."  
  
She forced a smile. Love was still a word she knew little about. "You came back from the dead  
  
for her. How. . .romantic."  
  
Terra moved to embrace him when she discovered how transfixed the treasure hunter was with  
  
the smoldering embers. "What is it? Locke, what's wrong?"  
  
But Locke could hardly hear her. From somewhere in the midst of the fervent kindling, he  
  
could detect the vague countenance of a '2', fuming and seething in ethegy. Just beyond stood  
  
Nethyren, mouthing something he couldn't quite hear until his lungs began to cave.   
  
You can't stop the Phantom Train. . .  
  
Convulsing, Locke fell backwards. Someone else, somewhere else, was about to die.  
  
"Please tell me!" Terra wailed, then turned her head in the direction of the airship. "Celes! It's  
  
Locke! Come quickly!  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Gone was all that was once cold and steel and brutal. What had, at one time, been a large,  
  
sprawling megalopolis of bronze towers and soldiers on the unseen march was now a fleeting  
  
band of disorganized has-beens, loitering in the dismal forests and clearings just south of Nikeah.  
  
Their only refuge from the outside world was a handful of makeshift tents with the red Imperial  
  
insignia sewn into their flanks. Many wished reform from their Imperial ways, and then their  
  
superior would harangue them with the importance of responsibility and loyalty.  
  
But no more. No more would Lieutenant Brutan Weber take orders from a commanding officer  
  
that was anything but. Czarina Sasha had drilled these people long enough. What hope was there  
  
for an 'Empire' which threatened 'resigning' with death? So, Brutan would take it upon himself to  
  
assassinate the Empress tonight, when she was alone in her tent. Then, and only then, would  
  
these Fanatics be free of their charmer's trance.  
  
There couldn't have been a more better night to plan such a deserving murder. It was dark and  
  
stormy, with wind and rain lashing vehemently at everyone's tent flaps. Just the thing to drown  
  
out her screams, he thought morbidly as he set about sharpening his cutlass on a whetstone.  
  
Brutan had tried to get others in on his plan but they were too honor bound to comply. So it was  
  
just himself - one man to liberate countless others.  
  
Lightning welcomed Brutan as he set out into the rain, thunder drumming in his head as he  
  
staggered about in the muddied earth in search of the Czarina's tent. Someone, he thought, was  
  
strongly opposing his sadistic intentions tonight, but he would let not even the Goddesses  
  
themselves impede him. At last, he reached Sasha's shelter, although he was perplexed to find  
  
light emanating from inside, especially at this hour.  
  
Knuckles white with tension, Brutan's hands produced his blade from the scabbard at his side.  
  
Exhaling heavily, the lieutenant darted into the tent, eager to rid the world of her liking. What he  
  
found, however, was a sudden darkness that ushered in tremendous driving pain within his chest,  
  
shattering his ribcage.  
  
Using what was left of his power to spin in his place, Brutan made out the faint silhouette of  
  
Czarina Sasha in the doorway, leering manically. When she spoke, her broken voice dripped with  
  
venom. "Oh, hello lieutenant! Word's gotten around that a certain senior officer has been  
  
conspiring to kill me! You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"  
  
Brutan, dizzy with pain, finally took counsel of the pike extruding from his chest, and by then,  
  
darkness had claimed him forever. Eyes ablaze, the czarina ripped the pike from the dead  
  
lieutenant's torso and ran it through again...and again...and again. Her bloodlust, strong though it  
  
was, lost its momentum with exhaustion. Sasha grit her teeth and leapt back to her feet even  
  
before Brutan's body hit the floor.  
  
But it was done. The threat had been extinguished. Spitting upon him with venal pride, the  
  
czarina abandoned the gore of the tent to cleanse herself in the rain. Pike still in hand, she  
  
scarcely had to the time to swipe the blood from its goad before catching sight of a new threat.  
  
Thunder pealed hard against his dark silhouette, as though all the earthly elements were on his  
  
side. Though Sasha was not at first familiar with this individual, she recognized him as a  
  
potential threat to the Empire with his Returner-oriented attire.  
  
"What business have you in these parts?" she yelled across the encampment.  
  
The man in the distance said nothing, only made his vengeful way across the camp to her  
  
position. Ever so gradually, Sasha found that she recognized this individual. He was from  
  
Kohilegen, a villa that had endured more than its share of Imperial warfare. Was she the reason  
  
he was here? To put an end to the last of the Emperor's own?  
  
"You. . ." he uttered, his voice dripping venom. "You took that young boy's life, didn't you?"  
  
Sasha was unfazed. "It was for the good of the Empire, Returner. I wouldn't expect you to  
  
understand that."  
  
Locke felt as though he had come to a crossroads. He had lost Rachel to this woman's kind, but  
  
if he were to kill her himself, he would be doing Celes no favors.   
  
"You want a piece of me, Returner?"  
  
Fate, it seemed, wasn't without its sense of irony.  
  
The amber hilt of Ragnarok gleamed, almost beckoning Locke to draw blood. But he did not. It  
  
was just what Sasha wanted him to do. It was just what 'Nethyren' wanted him to do. His  
  
thoughts went from Rachel to Celes and back again to what he should do. He was close now.  
  
There was but a single meter left between Returner and Imperial. The thunder would surely  
  
drown out her dying scream. The lightning would mask his retreat back to the airship. None of  
  
her disciples would know.  
  
But if he truly loved either Celes or Rachel, he would do nothing.  
  
Throwing his voice across the thunderclaps and driving rain, Locke said, "Killing you won't  
  
bring Rachel back." He began to back away. "May your psychopomp have mercy on you."  
  
With this said, the relic hunter turned his back on the woman and began his distraught way  
  
back to the airship where the others would surely be waiting for him.  
  
His first mistake.  
  
"Fool!" Sasha spat, spinning her halberd to confront an unready Locke Cole. "Did you really  
  
think you could trespass on Imperial soil and get away with it?!"  
  
He turned to face the Imperial woman a moment too late. The blunt end of her staff rang  
  
discordantly off of Locke's skull, knocking him to the muddied earth. Fighting one of Imperial  
  
raiment was confronting the past all over again. With reason abandoned, Locke brought his  
  
Ragnarok to bear, meeting the czarina's staff head on. The safety of the one he loved hung in the  
  
balance, and thus saw him through the driving rain and blinding hatred that otherwise would  
  
have consumed him. So, too, was Sasha compelled to acknowledge the duel, her sole existence  
  
defined by the destruction of Returner kind.  
  
And worlds collided.  
  
"You lock horns with a bull twice your size and strength." Sasha sneered as she swept her staff  
  
out in an open arch, catching Locke in the ribs and causing him to stagger backward. "Returner  
  
scum! You haven't a chance in Hell!"  
  
Groaning from her savage blows, Locke simply grit his teeth and returned to the battle with  
  
vigor renewed. His sword arm pinwheeled, with Ragnarok's blade catching the sheen of jagged  
  
lightning that forked across the sky. At last with a feint he found opening, deflecting a thrust and  
  
capitalizing by sending the hilt of Ragnarok crashing into the empress' nose. Dazed, she went  
  
down in a bloody heap to meet the waterlogged earth.   
  
There would be no more deaths tonight.  
  
"The Empire's dead." Locke threw his voice across the raging storm as he slid Ragnarok home  
  
to its sheath. "Let them go and stop terrorizing this world."  
  
"We never die . . ." The czarina spat blood that came down in rivulets from her nose. "As long  
  
as there is us, or others like us, so true will there be an Empire. It is inevitable."  
  
Oh, how he longed to put a stop to this boorish woman's rantings, much as he had alongside  
  
Banon and Arvis in the conflicts of yesteryear. But the number '1' danced along the edges of his  
  
conscious thought, offering a harsh reminder as to what would happen if he followed through  
  
with his homicidal tendencies. How irrepressibly difficult it was to be the one to keep the peace  
  
and yet, at the same time, be plagued with the knowledge that keeping the peace was an illusion.  
  
"I'm through," he said at last as the rain continued to pelt down on him, "Everything stops.  
  
Someone else will come along and finish the task the Returners started. I wash my hands of  
  
this..."  
  
Solemnly and silently, Locke turned in his place and started to leave. Unbeknownst to the  
  
erstwhile treasure hunter, Czarina Sasha was nowhere near so helpless as she led onto. With eyes  
  
now fixed on a suddenly open target, the conniving empress produced a small jeweled dagger  
  
from her boot heel and ran at him with distant thunderclaps masking her advance.  
  
Everything seemed to move in slow motion and in the heat of the moment, reason became  
  
abandoned for instinct. Out of the corner of his eye, Locke caught the glint of her dagger  
  
reflecting in a flash of lightning. And there was no staying his sword. The will to survive, the  
  
most primitive of all human drives, was in control now. Without thought nor will nor concern for  
  
her welfare, Locke once more brought Ragnarok to the fore of battle. And the blade found home,  
  
penetrating the woman's breastplate, parting flesh, collapsing lung, rending heart, and finally  
  
severing her spine.  
  
The single moment in time which followed felt like an eternity for Locke as what he had done  
  
finally started to register. What 'had' he just done? Looking down at the face whose life he had  
  
just taken, he couldn't find the countenance of a born-again Imperial but that of a former Magitek  
  
Knight. Celes Chere . . .  
  
Three deaths.  
  
Three passengers more for the Phantom Train.  
  
He had condemned her. The number of the woman he loved was up. Returning to earth, Locke  
  
cast the empress' body aside and tried reassessing the situation. But all that would come was the  
  
voice of his psychopomp traversing the void of Life and Death to taunt him, to remind him of  
  
how futile, how absolutely hopeless, it all was.  
  
There is no stopping the Phantom Train. Celes Chere's time draws near. If she does not fall by  
  
another's hand, she will fall by your own. There is no stopping the Phantom Train . . .  
  
"What have I done?"  
  
Embittered, and beginning to feel his first tears of despair fall with the rain, Locke at last  
  
straightened and broke into a desperate run back to the airship. If it truly was inevitable, then he  
  
would be there for her until the very end. Maybe there was no protecting her forever but he had to  
  
try. He had to try.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
  
"Locke!"  
  
Everyone seemed to react at once when at last the treasure hunter made his return. He had  
  
given everyone explicit instructions to stay behind and therefore remained respectful of his  
  
wishes until hearing further word from him. He found them all gathered on the living deck,  
  
apparently exchanging anecdotes over dim lantern light to wile away the awkward moments of  
  
concern.  
  
"Is everything al-" Terra started to say.  
  
"There'll be time for explanations later." He seemed to address no one in particular as he took  
  
hold of Celes' arm and hurried her out of the room. "But for now, there's something I have to  
  
do."  
  
"Locke, wait! What's the matter?"  
  
But her voice fell on deaf ears as Locke rushed her away from all their friends and below decks  
  
to private quarters. The relic hunter wasn't altogether certain if there was truly anyone left in the  
  
world to trust him as far as protecting Celes was concerned. Hence he wasn't about to take any  
  
chances, not even with esteemed colleagues whom he had known for almost two years. As  
  
Nethyren had made crystal clear to him, anyone could've been the guilty party.  
  
"Locke, enough is enough." She shook her head sadly as she watched him scravel madly to  
  
secure the lock on the door. Concern etched her radiant appearance as she banished a loose wisp  
  
of blond hair, as if trying to extinguish her own mounting impatience. "Your friends are starting  
  
to worry about you, and so am I."  
  
With a strange smile on his face, Locke went to her and took away all of her concerns with a  
  
kiss. And Celes was taken aback. It was long and passionate and more pleasant than words could  
  
readily convey. But for Locke, it was a pain sharper than any he had felt before. It was the painful  
  
realization of what he would lose if he were to fail. He took in the scent of her, the taste of her,  
  
the feel of her lips lapping against his own. It was everything he could do not to feel the pleasure  
  
and the pain of it all in a single instant.  
  
"Celes . . ." He broke away and touched her lovingly on the cheek. "I can't lose you."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
  
Locke stirred from a blissful sleep some time later. Checking the crystalline watch given to him  
  
by Nethyren, he discovered that it had been some three hours. He shifted on the bed and found  
  
Celes cuddled in close to him, oblivious to whatever cares she may have carried with her in the  
  
waking world. He smiled and brushed a lock of her hair away from her face. Whatever time the  
  
two of them had left, at least they were making the most of it.  
  
Again, Locke glimpsed the translucent timepiece. It was only a couple of minutes before the  
  
zero hour, the hour in which Celes was to join the dearly departed aboard the Phantom Train.  
  
Unless some meteor or a ninth dragon were to jump their craft by surprise, there would be no  
  
way that it could possibly happen. Locke took comfort in this and gently slipped his arm out from  
  
around Celes' shoulders. Only now did it occur to him that this was his first opportunity to take  
  
ease since their battle with Kefka.  
  
For a moment, he wandered about their personal quarters, wanting to ground himself with his  
  
surroundings and possibly even forget about the entire ordeal he'd been shouldering over the past  
  
couple of hours. Off in the distant corner was a study desk, littered with all sorts of knickknacks  
  
used time and time again while questing through the World of Ruin. There were duffles, canned  
  
goods, dirks, a shield, drawstring pouches stuffed to capacity with every manner of coin, ring and  
  
relic, and dozens of other odds and ends. Just thinking about their entire trek over the past few  
  
months made Locke's feet sore.  
  
Then, his eyes happened across something they had overlooked before: a small, leather-bound  
  
journal with the crimson insignia of the Empire inscribed on the cover. Judging from the  
  
penmanship within, he concluded that it was Celes' journal:  
  
. . . that which was promised has been delivered. First assault on the township of Kohilegen  
  
executed at 1300 hours on the thirteenth day of July. Civilian fatalities were minimal. Met with  
  
token resistance. Returner activity could not be ascertained. Battalion to reach Jidoor at next  
  
sunrise. More developments to come . . .  
  
Cold dread.  
  
Locke read the passage a second time, as if to make absolute certain he had read it correctly. A  
  
third time. A fourth. This couldn't be happening. July 13th. He knew that date well. It had been  
  
seared into his mind ever since that fateful day back what seemed aeons ago. The day he had lost  
  
Rachel to the Empire.  
  
And Celes - General Celes - was responsible for it.  
  
"Celes . . ."  
  
All of what he had accomplished since that horrible day, the friends he had made, the treasures  
  
he had unearthed, the overwhelming odds he had conquered, none of it seemed to matter  
  
anymore. The suffering now, he realized, was being replaced by a cold hatred. He had been a  
  
fool. So many instances in which the harsh reality of it all was right under his nose.  
  
Cid had told him:  
  
I raised her as my own daughter but she has done some horrible things . . .  
  
Nethyren had told him:  
  
Celes Chere's time draws near. If she does not fall by another's hand, she will fall by your own .  
  
. .  
  
Even he had told himself at one time that she could not be trusted. Cold hatred, almost glacial,  
  
welled up inside of him. It was inexcusable, unforgivable.  
  
Celes had to die.  
  
Locke wasted no time. Almost the second Celes sat up and stretched on the mattress he was  
  
upon her, grabbing her wrist and throwing her to the floor of their cabin. Celes scarcely had time  
  
enough to react to Locke's sudden change of heart, caught off-guard as she was from the passion  
  
they had shared beforehand. A pall of utter terror passed over her face. Had something possessed  
  
him?  
  
"What the hell's gotten into you?!" she fired at him.  
  
"Rachel!" he growled. "It was you who took her from me! Why?! How could you do such a  
  
thing?! What did she ever do to deserve it?!"  
  
The shock of being caught came harder to Celes than the shock of feeling his cold shoulder.  
  
There was no getting out of it now. She had known from the very moment her eyes witnessed  
  
Rachel in suspended animation back in Kohilegen that the truth would not stay buried for long,  
  
and that nothing she said or did now could hope to make it better.  
  
"I . . . I . . ." She inched away from him, terrified by the murder in his eyes. "Locke, I . . . sorry.  
  
I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am! I . . . I didn't know!"  
  
"And that made it right?!" Ragnarok, by now, was back in his hands and there was no doubt as  
  
to whether or not he would use it. "She . . . she knew nothing of deception! She was no threat to  
  
the Empire! Why did she have to die?!"  
  
Tears gathered in both of their eyes, their minds still reeling from the unfairness of it all. "It  
  
wasn't intentional, Locke! I swear! It just . . . happened that way! Locke, please . . ."  
  
"Collateral damage, right?!" He consciously struggled to stay his blade. "Then, why  
  
Kohilegen?! Why not Jidoor?! Or Albrook?! Or Tzen?!"  
  
"I was under orders!" she wailed. "I had no choice!"  
  
"You always have a choice . . ."  
  
After trying so hard to beat the clock and save the one which meant so much to him, Locke  
  
would have never even had the slightest clue that 'he' would be the one fated to kill Celes. The  
  
Dream Stooges must be having a good laugh at this one, he thought. As was Nethyren . . .  
  
"Don't do this," she whimpered, "Please. It doesn't have to end this way."  
  
If she does not fall by another's hand, she will fall by your own . . .  
  
Anger. Sadness. Frustration. All at once. He felt himself buckle under the weight of  
  
providence. He could never lift a finger to harm Celes, not after he had already vowed to protect  
  
her. But what she had done, what she had taken from him, there could be no forgiveness for that.  
  
The very inertia of his situation threatened to tear him apart at the seams.  
  
Then he remembered what Nethyren had said about the timepiece given to him:  
  
The instant that watch is destroyed, you will return and take your place aboard the Phantom  
  
Train . . .  
  
"Forget it, Nethyren. I won't let you take her just yet."  
  
Locke had realized that he had been thinking out loud but it hardly mattered anymore. With  
  
Ragnarok in hand, he tossed the diamond-emulating charm into the air before him and parted it  
  
with one expertly timed swipe of the amber blade.  
  
"Good-bye, Celes."  
  
"Good-bye?! But where are you-"  
  
And Locke heard nothing else.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
  
"Tickets, please. Be sure to have your tickets ready for entry."  
  
It was deja'vu all over again for the wayward soul named Locke. For the second time in as  
  
many days, he was back among the bleak and misty forests of Afterlife. Only this time, when he  
  
looked back, Celes was nowhere to be seen. At all. He breathed easy, as it meant that she must  
  
have a long and happy life ahead of her. It was still inexcusable what happened to Rachel but  
  
judgment was to be decided by her psychopomp, not himself.  
  
"We really must stop meeting like this." His usual chipper self, Nethyren remained just as  
  
Locke had remembered him, with bony hand still outstretched for his ticket. "I trust you were  
  
able to complete any unfinished business this time around."  
  
"No thanks to you." Locke reached into his jacket pocket, this time his fingers finding the  
  
ticket. "And despite your council, or maybe even because of it, I made a difference this time. And  
  
who knows. Maybe I even made your little scheme of things just a little less perfect in the  
  
process."  
  
Nethyren's facade remained unchanged as he took the strip of translucent paper and ripped it in  
  
half. "Please retain your stubs. You will need them as proof of entry past Purgatory."  
  
Locke gave a cryptic nod and boarded the Phantom Train.  
  
And this time, there would be no going back.  
  
~THE END~ 


End file.
